This was, on all accounts, a bad day for Klaus. It was a bad day for Lelo. It was an unmentionable day for the passive Marcus. But it was the very worst day for Arnie. In fact, it was the [[#|last]] day of his life as well.
Oh, poor Arnie, the expendable fool. He spent his last minutes as a pawn and an animal and not as a man. Never did he even think to put into account the inherent risks of the Waltzer life. 35 years old, he was a mass-produced, finely tuned man-child of the Crawley machine. His sunny disposition was the product of a life of ceaseless indoctrination. He liked cotton candy and the sunset, and he thrived on hugs and words of unity. He had, after all, spent much of his adult life greeting patrons of the Market underneath the splintered piece of wood at the entrance that proudly stated “We Are One.”
That was the phony creed of the Third Ward Free Market. It was such a place that all factions could supposedly come and interact in harmony, if for not just one hour or so, as they gathered supplies in their journeys and fights to survive. It was like a church of old, in that all people of all stripes would shake hands and chat amiably only to, sometimes literally, stab that same person in the back the moment they left the premises. So the chatter was artificially jovial but this was only the glaze on top of a palpable undercurrent of contempt. It was probable that little Arnie was the only person who actually bought into the “We Are One” slogan the market employed.
He was a small, spare man, who enjoyed the daily routine. He had perfectly gelled yellow hair each morning and kept his Waltzer uniform pressed and ironed at all times, all the way down to the ascot. He’d greet his co-worker Chaz each morning enthusiastically, only for it to generally be met with a noncommittal shrug, or some variation of “shut up.” He knew Chaz, an expat member of the Sullivan’s Fleet, would rather be sailing the lakes while whooping and hollering. He figured he was just curmudgeonly because of this. He always subscribed to the belief that someday he’d convert Chaz into having his same disposition.
He had been conditioned by the Crawley regime into believing all was well and that he was on the right side of history. Every single day of his 35 years of life, he would think this. No matter what happened, he’d just keep smiling. How innocent he was.
But then the bad men came. There was a young man of the Sullivan’s Fleet who immediately shot him grimaces. There was some kind of investigator that didn’t say much. Then there was Klaus. Before Arnie could even utter the words of welcome, Klaus said “leave me the fuck alone.”
What hostility, Arnie thought. How needless! But things only worsened. Klaus swore and yelled at him and it was all unprovoked. Chaz didn’t even intervene. Why was this man rejecting his friendliness? Hadn’t he read the sign? Then when Arnie went into for the hug that would surely set things straight, he nearly broke his back.
“Yowch!” he yelped. “Jeepers creepers, you’re hurting my back!” It was at this that Chaz finally intervened.
Chaz was another behemoth who gave Klaus a run for his money. He had an odd mustache that was merely two squares on the far sides of his upper lip. He could’ve kissed Charlie Chaplin and their mustaches wouldn’t have touched. He had sideburns that came out in perfect pyramid shaped tufts. When Klaus released his bear hug, Arnie from the ground saw Chaz halfheartedly handcuff Klaus and whisper in his ear. Words of encouragement? Finally, Chaz announced that he would take the two to a friend known for his skills in mediation. Klaus and Arnie would be friends in no time, he promised. Arnie was sure he was right. The two had simply started off on the wrong foot. But Arnie felt the glowing ember of an emotion he was unfamiliar with begin to flicker inside of him. What was it? Anger?
So Chaz walked Klaus through the market in handcuffs and Arnie, half-joking and half-seriously, kept hollering how Klaus was a bad man but that he would be fixed. Arnie thought there was no way this obviously unaffiliated ruffian could resist the temptation of the unity the Crawleys provided.
They came to a cellar door and walked down stairs. It was dimly lit and awash in a golden glow. Another poorly made sign read “Old Thom’s.” There were bits of jagged metal and ripped up bits of machines and engines littering the place, like some kind of graveyard of technology. Soon, Arnie saw a corpulent old man with hair that looked like spider-webs sitting in a chair. He had two crusty hoagies, with one in each hand.
“Yoo-hoo!” sang Arnie. Old Thom shot him a rancid glare and everybody else ignored him. His chipper spirit was wasted in this circle of hell. This was the beginning of the end. Old Thom was no mediator.
Klaus and Chaz [[#|soon]] got in a kerfuffle and there were talks of money and the need to acquire a Waltzer corpse for some reason. That…that was why this insidious Klaus had come. He had come to kill and collect a body. Moments later, Arnie put the pieces together. They were going to kill him. Chaz hatched the idea around the same time Klaus arrived.
Arnie was now no longer a breathing soul. He was a bargaining chip and a tool. Klaus didn’t see him as a person, even.
Arnie’s vision became soaked in tears. He was the proverbial otter who had approached the Frenchman to play and wound up getting clubbed to death for the pelt.
He tried to run away but found Old Thom had waddled over to the entrance and double padlocked it shut. Arnie was trapped. The rainbow in his mind turned grey.
There was yelling. Klaus put him in a chokehold and offered a paltry sum for the privilege of getting to be the one who killed him. Chaz rejected the offer and put a gun to Klaus’ head. Lelo and Marcus just watched like ghosts, numb to the whole situation.
In response, Old Thom simply said “That’s a START” and stabbed Arnie in the leg with a screwdriver all the way up to the handle. Arnie was now borne to the pain that would remain for the rest of his life. Each time a counter offer was given, Old Thom stabbed Arnie some more. Klaus eventually convinced him to take a different approach. He lifted Arnie up and put his head in an industrial vice at the back of his abode. Fifty dollars would get a spin of the vice wheel, he said. Fifty dollars each turn until Arnie was dead.
Through his blubbering, Arnie tried to tap into any vestiges of humanity these monsters had. He told them about his kitty at home and his “vespa” that he had restored from over 80 years ago. Nobody cared. They told him to shut up. The vice tightened until he only had the room to say one last thing.
“Crawley will prevail.”
The vice tightened once more and Arnie felt and heard a sharp crack until the lights went out for good.
This is what the warring of the people had done. They’d murdered a harmless pet who’d never fired a gun to trade his pelt like currency. It was disgusting. There was no humanity left. And this was the worst day Arnie ever had in his entire life.
Oh, poor Arnie, the expendable fool. He spent his last minutes as a pawn and an animal and not as a man. Never did he even think to put into account the inherent risks of the Waltzer life. 35 years old, he was a mass-produced, finely tuned man-child of the Crawley machine. His sunny disposition was the product of a life of ceaseless indoctrination. He liked cotton candy and the sunset, and he thrived on hugs and words of unity. He had, after all, spent much of his adult life greeting patrons of the Market underneath the splintered piece of wood at the entrance that proudly stated “We Are One.”
That was the phony creed of the Third Ward Free Market. It was such a place that all factions could supposedly come and interact in harmony, if for not just one hour or so, as they gathered supplies in their journeys and fights to survive. It was like a church of old, in that all people of all stripes would shake hands and chat amiably only to, sometimes literally, stab that same person in the back the moment they left the premises. So the chatter was artificially jovial but this was only the glaze on top of a palpable undercurrent of contempt. It was probable that little Arnie was the only person who actually bought into the “We Are One” slogan the market employed.
He was a small, spare man, who enjoyed the daily routine. He had perfectly gelled yellow hair each morning and kept his Waltzer uniform pressed and ironed at all times, all the way down to the ascot. He’d greet his co-worker Chaz each morning enthusiastically, only for it to generally be met with a noncommittal shrug, or some variation of “shut up.” He knew Chaz, an expat member of the Sullivan’s Fleet, would rather be sailing the lakes while whooping and hollering. He figured he was just curmudgeonly because of this. He always subscribed to the belief that someday he’d convert Chaz into having his same disposition.
He had been conditioned by the Crawley regime into believing all was well and that he was on the right side of history. Every single day of his 35 years of life, he would think this. No matter what happened, he’d just keep smiling. How innocent he was.
But then the bad men came. There was a young man of the Sullivan’s Fleet who immediately shot him grimaces. There was some kind of investigator that didn’t say much. Then there was Klaus. Before Arnie could even utter the words of welcome, Klaus said “leave me the fuck alone.”
What hostility, Arnie thought. How needless! But things only worsened. Klaus swore and yelled at him and it was all unprovoked. Chaz didn’t even intervene. Why was this man rejecting his friendliness? Hadn’t he read the sign? Then when Arnie went into for the hug that would surely set things straight, he nearly broke his back.
“Yowch!” he yelped. “Jeepers creepers, you’re hurting my back!” It was at this that Chaz finally intervened.
Chaz was another behemoth who gave Klaus a run for his money. He had an odd mustache that was merely two squares on the far sides of his upper lip. He could’ve kissed Charlie Chaplin and their mustaches wouldn’t have touched. He had sideburns that came out in perfect pyramid shaped tufts. When Klaus released his bear hug, Arnie from the ground saw Chaz halfheartedly handcuff Klaus and whisper in his ear. Words of encouragement? Finally, Chaz announced that he would take the two to a friend known for his skills in mediation. Klaus and Arnie would be friends in no time, he promised. Arnie was sure he was right. The two had simply started off on the wrong foot. But Arnie felt the glowing ember of an emotion he was unfamiliar with begin to flicker inside of him. What was it? Anger?
So Chaz walked Klaus through the market in handcuffs and Arnie, half-joking and half-seriously, kept hollering how Klaus was a bad man but that he would be fixed. Arnie thought there was no way this obviously unaffiliated ruffian could resist the temptation of the unity the Crawleys provided.
They came to a cellar door and walked down stairs. It was dimly lit and awash in a golden glow. Another poorly made sign read “Old Thom’s.” There were bits of jagged metal and ripped up bits of machines and engines littering the place, like some kind of graveyard of technology. Soon, Arnie saw a corpulent old man with hair that looked like spider-webs sitting in a chair. He had two crusty hoagies, with one in each hand.
“Yoo-hoo!” sang Arnie. Old Thom shot him a rancid glare and everybody else ignored him. His chipper spirit was wasted in this circle of hell. This was the beginning of the end. Old Thom was no mediator.
Klaus and Chaz [[#|soon]] got in a kerfuffle and there were talks of money and the need to acquire a Waltzer corpse for some reason. That…that was why this insidious Klaus had come. He had come to kill and collect a body. Moments later, Arnie put the pieces together. They were going to kill him. Chaz hatched the idea around the same time Klaus arrived.
Arnie was now no longer a breathing soul. He was a bargaining chip and a tool. Klaus didn’t see him as a person, even.
Arnie’s vision became soaked in tears. He was the proverbial otter who had approached the Frenchman to play and wound up getting clubbed to death for the pelt.
He tried to run away but found Old Thom had waddled over to the entrance and double padlocked it shut. Arnie was trapped. The rainbow in his mind turned grey.
There was yelling. Klaus put him in a chokehold and offered a paltry sum for the privilege of getting to be the one who killed him. Chaz rejected the offer and put a gun to Klaus’ head. Lelo and Marcus just watched like ghosts, numb to the whole situation.
In response, Old Thom simply said “That’s a START” and stabbed Arnie in the leg with a screwdriver all the way up to the handle. Arnie was now borne to the pain that would remain for the rest of his life. Each time a counter offer was given, Old Thom stabbed Arnie some more. Klaus eventually convinced him to take a different approach. He lifted Arnie up and put his head in an industrial vice at the back of his abode. Fifty dollars would get a spin of the vice wheel, he said. Fifty dollars each turn until Arnie was dead.
Through his blubbering, Arnie tried to tap into any vestiges of humanity these monsters had. He told them about his kitty at home and his “vespa” that he had restored from over 80 years ago. Nobody cared. They told him to shut up. The vice tightened until he only had the room to say one last thing.
“Crawley will prevail.”
The vice tightened once more and Arnie felt and heard a sharp crack until the lights went out for good.
This is what the warring of the people had done. They’d murdered a harmless pet who’d never fired a gun to trade his pelt like currency. It was disgusting. There was no humanity left. And this was the worst day Arnie ever had in his entire life.